The ball popped out like a 5-cent sour cherry gumball.

Friday night after running the gauntlet of the locker room again, I joined the team on the sidelines. This was another home game, thankfully. I hadn’t yet come up with a plan for what to do about the locker room of an away game.

But we were at Friendly Field with the big silly painting of a cartoon lion on the end of the bleachers. It always looked vaguely like Snagglepuss to me.

And there were the cheerleaders holding up a banner for us to run under, Joanna at one end and Kimby Quintera (the other tall girl on the squad) at the other.

“Rah! Lions!” the cheerleaders shouted and we roared back, “Friendly Pride!” as we ran under the banner and took the field against the Bulldogs.

I saw that Leland Frick had filmed our ceremony from behind the team bench and I gave him a little wave. The huge smile I got back seemed out of proportion, but then I never felt that Frick got all the approval he should from the team. I saw that Lee was working with the radio guys from KZG-FM, the station that carried our games.

We had a brief conference with Coach Wilson, agreeing that we would stick with the plan for Dave to try passing in the first half and Jake would stay out of the game with his injured hand until he might—Wilson said might— get into the game on defense. That way he could still have a solid season with no missed games. That would look good to recruiters.

The Bulldogs won the coin toss and chose to kick off. The ball landed in front of me, I caught it on a bounce and started upfield, the team falling in around me in a wedge. I didn’t turn on the speed right away, letting them get into position.

When I felt my protection was as good as it would get, I picked out a route through my guys and the mob of defenders, and yelled, “Drive!”

Then it was broken-field running, quick changes of direction, always landing on the right foot and watching my sides. I didn’t stop, pulling up in the endzone a bit winded and surprised I had managed to do that.

It was always a rush, though, and I loved it.

Random Bulldogs who had been chasing me came up and either scowled or grinned at me. “How can you run like that?” One of them asked. “Your ass was moving like a cannonball doing the watusi.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that so I just shrugged.

Some of the Lions caught up just as the ref moved to the middle of the field and held his arms over his head to indicate a touchdown. The hometown crowd was cheering and Joanna and her crew were trying to keep them excited.

Dave Garcia came up to me, his grin a little uneven. “Shit,” he said bluntly. “I forgot you can run like that.”

“It’s my job,” I said then jumped when he slapped me on the ass.

“We’re going for two, on thirty, Up on a fader.”

I nodded and followed him into the huddle, even though he’d just told me what the play would be. We were going for a two-point conversion. Upsteen, our tight end, would take two steps forward into the endzone then one right and turn to receive the ball.

Not a lot for me to do on such a play and all Upp had to do was catch the snap pass. Matt, the tackle, and I would guard the hole and block anyone from trying to knock down the pass, but it would be a quick play that almost takes longer to describe than to execute. With Jake it would be almost a slam dunk four or five yards.

We only needed three and it went like clockwork, Garcia got rid of the ball almost as quick as the snap, and Up pulled it in with those long fingers. The scoreboard read 0-8 and there was much rejoicing.

I managed to slap both Dave and Upsteen on the ass during our trot to midfield, and I felt good about the world and football, and my place in both of them. Honestly, the excitement and adrenalin had filled me and I forgot that I had any problems at all.

We kicked off and the Bulldogs brought it back to us, taking their first down at the 45. This was defense and my job on safety was to chase down anyone with the ball who got past the line.

The ‘Dogs came at us, three quick, short passes and a quarterback dive and they had a new first down. It was on!

Defense is not my favorite part of the game, but I said a little prayer of thanks for being on the field where I loved to be, playing football with the rest of the guys.

It took the ‘Dogs nine more short, sharp plays to get into scoring position just inside our twenty. Third and six they pulled a pass play, a bullet down the middle to their looping weak-side receiver. He pulled it in and I was the only thing between him and a goal. I hit him around the hips before he had the ball secure, but after he had taken one step in possession.

The ball popped out like a 5-cent sour cherry gumball. I scooped it in and made it back to the forty before getting nailed by their free safety, a kid who wore a red-and-black 17 on his jersey to match the same number, blue-on-yellow that I wore.

His last name was Ginger, according to the jersey. He gave me a hand to help me stand and said, “If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have scored again.”

“Damn right I would have,” I said. “You were the last ‘Dog in the race!”

“Good run, seventeen,” he said.

“Good tackle, seventeen,” I responded.

We bumped fists, grinning like fools and trotted back to our own huddles.

Dave patted me on the helmet and called me Scooter. “We got the ball and we’re gonna score,” he said, sounding confident. But three plays later, we were on their 45, stalled out. It was time to punt. Dave didn’t like doing it, but he knew he wasn’t a strong enough kicker for a field goal, so he placed the drop where it would give them no real advantage.

That Ginger kid turned out to be the ‘Dogs’ punt return specialist. He snagged Dave’s kick on an awkward bounce, tucked it into his chest and wiggled his way through our defenders, coming at me like a Pete-seeking missile.

He was fast and slippery, but so am I. He faked a turn with his shoulders, trying for an angle to pass by me. We came together body-to-body, but my leg was in front of his and we both went down on the grass.

We stood up, leaning on our knees, panting like wolves. “Payback,” I grunted.

“…Is a bitch,” he agreed. But he added, “And I hear you’re one, too!”

I wasn’t sure what he’d said. “Huh?” I inquired. He didn’t answer, just flashed me a freckled grin before trotting off to his teammates.

I stood there staring at him. It was the end of the quarter and we had to swap ends, so I didn’t actually have to go anywhere, just stay where I was and wait for the team to find me.

The visiting cheerleaders were bouncing around urging their guys on. “Bite’em! Bulldogs! Mow them Lawns!”

Lawns? That was a pretty clever cheer, it wasn’t far off the local pronunciation of ‘lions’.

I grinned, distracted. Then I glanced at our cheering squad. Joanna and Kimby were anchoring the line for a crack-the-whip move that sent two of the smaller squadettes flying. Megan, too solid for a flyer and not big enough to anchor was just bouncing and dancing around, showing off her pom-pom science.

Something nagged at me, but the game had caught up and the ‘Dogs were ready to play. I needed another chance to talk to Ginger, but I didn’t see how it could happen.

“Shave them ‘Dogs,” said Dave as we lined up in defensive positions. That got a few grins, too. Not as clever as “Mow the Lawns,” but Dave meant it just as sincerely.

Again the visitors drove to just our twenty, but this time the down situation wasn’t favorable, so they elected to kick a field goal. It went in and the Bulldogs had their first score.

The Black and Red lined up to kickoff and I kept my eye on seventeen. He was probably their fastest runner, he’d be downfield in Lion territory quick, but if I got close enough to him to talk, maybe I could find out why he called me a bitch.

Did he know something?